The little school boys aren't so bad after all

Have we gotten to the bottom of Les Petits Ecoliers?  First I thought it was schoolkids. Then I thought it was the name of a famous French porn. And then I figured out that it really means "the school boys." And let me tell you again, it really means "the school boys."

Should I be ashamed to say that I spent four hours at the cafe today?  Four hours.  Did Norm ever spend four hours on his stool?  If I ever write a book, these will be some of my favorite characters.

I prefer the time alone with Olivier, the owner.  But, in four hours you can be sure that he had a few customers.  A new one would come, chit chat for awhile and leave.  Then, Olivier would fill me in.  There's one that owns a fancy game store.  I don't really know what's there other than chess.  I pass it on my way home and it's kind of been something I look forward to.  You can't see the owner from the window, but his classical music pours onto the street.  Sometimes I come home that way just to hear it.  Today I found out that he likes to say rude things in French because he knows that I don't understand and he thinks it's cool to be able to do that in front of me like a little secret between him and Olivier.  Little does he know, his playmate tattles.

There's another one that  likes little boys.  He's preppy, cute, kind of looks like a business man on a casual Friday.  But, he likes little boys.  And he has no idea when he winks at me that I know that he likes little boys.

There's a lady, with a great name that I seem to have forgotten, that sometimes spends the whole day.  Today I said that I was like her and Olivier said, "You'd have finished three bottles of wine by now if you were her."

There's an old man that comes alone everyday.  He sits at the same table and he comes twice a day at the same times.  Today I found out that he used to come with a woman.  Olivier assumed it was his wife.  He's been coming alone for the past three months and Olivier still hasn't asked about the woman because who knows if she left on the back of a motorcycle with another man?

There's Angelito.  He's Spanish.  He's Angelito.  I don't know what else to say.  He sent me a text ( I didn't know a 65-year old guy would be into texting) and signed it "El Nino."  It's the first text I've received from a hurricane.

There's the Portuguese lady.  I like her.  Today she told me how to prepare Confit du Canard.  I said that I wanted to take something as a gift on my next trip to Italy.  So, I bought it, and she told me how to prepare it.  I just checked my dictionary.  Canard is duck.  Ok.  Confit is candied or crystalized.  Then it says in French, Confit du canard followed by the English definition Confit of duck.  I'm sure confit means something in English that I don't know.  I can't imagine that I'll be preparing candied duck for my Italian friends.  But, who knows?  I still don't have any background scoop on her.

I'd be foolish to think that they didn't know some secrets about the American.  I just wish I knew what they knew.  Maybe I'll start telling Olivier some lies to make myself more interesting for the others.

The biggest surprise came today.  A man that I've seen and talked to a few times came in and showed Olivier a cane.  The top was carved to look like a seahorse.  We looked at it, handed it back to him and then he told Olivier it was a gift. As he was leaving, I said that I'd be waiting on my stool for my gift tomorrow and that I liked chocolate.  So, he left and Olivier told me his story.  He robbed several jewelry stores at gunpoint and was in prison for twenty years.  "NOW he's not such a bad guy," said Olivier.  Ten minutes  passed  and he came back.  He said that he couldn't wait until tomorrow to give me my gift and presented me with a lovely wrapped box of chocolates.  I opened it.  We had a few.  And he left.  "See," said Olivier.  "NOW he's not such a bad guy."  I'm just glad I didn't say that I liked jewelry.

Coffee, tea or.......cioccolato or macchiato or cappuccino or caffe d'orzo

I'm not sure if it's really stupid that I don't know this, and that maybe we have the exact same thing in Chicago, but the truth is, I would be equally surprised and fascinated to find the same thing in an office at home.  Maybe the real problem is that I'm not in an office enough.  Do I need a job?

Anyway, I went to my friend's office in Italy and was invited to join the group at the vending machine for their 8:00 a.m. coffee break.  I never thought I would be in an office in Italy standing at the most incredible vending machine I've ever seen to be a part of the 'water cooler chat.' But, sometimes I'm lucky.

In addition to being the only loser to have hot chocolate, I was also the only loser that had to ask for help with my selection.  Here's what the machine had to offer:

caffe espresso, dolce

caffe lungo, dolce

caffe macchiato, dolce

cappuccino, dolce

cappuccino con cioccolato, dolce

caffe d'orzo, dolce

caffe d'orzo macchiato, dolce

cappuccino d'orzo, dolce

bevanda a gusto di cioccolato

bevanda a gusto di cioccolato forte

bevanda a gusto di cioccolato con latte

caffe con cioccolato, dolce

bevanda al gusto di te al limone

bevando al gusto di latte, dolce

bevanda al gusto di latte macchiato, dolce

bevanda al gusto di latte macchiato, dolce

solo bicchiere 0.05

That's sixteen options.  Does Starbucks even have sixteen options?

All I wanted was a hot chocolate.  They told me that cioccolato forte was just chocolate.  It didn't indicate milk or water.  Would it be like hot fudge?  That's how some hot chocolate in Italy is.  I've had it in a restaurant, with whipped cream.  You eat it with a spoon.  All it seems to be missing is the gelato.

And the plain cioccolato?  Who knows?

I went with a "bevanda a gusto di cioccolato con latte."  That's a drink 'with the taste of chocolate with milk.'  That's really how it is offered.  "A drink with the taste of....."  It's like a commercial right there on the vending machine.  One would expect to see a gondolier paddling by singing, "That's Amore."

Drinks on me

I know that some of you may be thinking that I've forgotten that I'm living in France and not in Italy.  While it's true that I prefer Italian nouns (people, places and things...just a reminder from the English teacher), there is one thing that I find better in Paris than Venice.  Free water.  Not canals of water....those are actually quite nice in both places.  I'm talking about drinking water.  When you ask for water in a restaurant in France you say "une carafe d'eau, s'il vous plait" and they bring you a pitcher of tap water.  Actually, it's not always a pitcher.   Sometimes it's a decorative bottle.  Sometimes it's a carafe.  And sometimes they just refill  an old wine bottle with water.  That's my favorite and a tradition I might bring home with me.   A French tradition, don't forget.  Because it doesn't happen in Italy.

A perfectly soggy uncut pizza for 5 euro instead of 10 euro?   Nessun problema.  A gelato cone with whipped cream (brilliant idea, I think) for 1,50 euro instead of 4 euro?   Sicuramente.  But free water?  It seems to be out of the question.  At least, it's out of the comfort level of a question that I want to ask.  In Italy it's actually cheaper to drink Diet Coke than water.  Whereas in France, it's cheaper to drink wine than Diet Coke.  And since I still don't like wine, it's even cheaper (and more fun) to order free water and  take pictures of the pitchers.

bicicletta:beecheecletta, bici:bc, velo:vaylow

This morning when I went out to get my bike it was locked in by some construction workers.  Really.  They built a little blockade around it and they were breaking up the concrete underneath it.  I walked right up like I owned the bike, which I kind of do, and told them in my best French that it was my bike and I needed it.  They said I couldn't have it. At least that's what I thought they said.  So I said some more stuff that I'm sure made about as much sense to them as the stuff they said to me.   I really didn't want to take the metro.  Yes.  The metro signs are cool.  And some of the stations are even cool.  I especially love the giant billboards down below.  But, I hate the metro and I really wanted to ride my bike.

I wasn't sure if they were joking when they said I couldn't have it.  I haven't mastered the intricacies of the language well enough to actually understand a little teasing. So, I held my ground (which I still had!  They were the ones standing in a big hole)  and said something that made one of them ask me if I was Spanish.  I said no, but I said that I spoke Spanish.  We continued a bit in French and then one of them said he would help me get my bike out for one euro.  At this point, I got the joke.  I handed over my keys and he unlocked the u-lock and gave the keys back.  I said that there was another lock and he said it would be another euro.  I'd actually have been willing to pay this to stay off the metro.

He got the bike unlocked and had to lift it over the blockade and hand it to me.  So, my bike was set free and I was set free and thanked them with a "grazie mille."  That's when one of them said, (in Italian), "Why didn't you just say you were Italian in the first place?  This would have all been much easier."  Arrivaderci!

I just couldn't 'shoes' what I wanted to do

I didn't think I'd fall for it.  I went to the cafe this morning looking for advice on what to do all day.  I said I'd just do whatever they suggested.  I threw a few ideas out there.  Museums with a high concentration of watercolor paintings, little towns an hour or so away on the train where I could just go for a walk, galleries, dance performances?  "You name it,"  I said.  I just wanted something to do.

What they couldn't understand was why I wasn't going shopping.  People actually come to Paris this time of year for the sales.  They're huge.  Every store has signs about the discounts.  SOLDES!  That's what they're called in French.  Which is really kind of funny because "soldi" means money in Italian and reduction (of money) in French.  The sales started a couple of weeks ago and I think they last for six weeks.  Then it happens all over again in July.  It's kind of like the day after Christmas for six weeks twice a year.  Anyway, I told them that I wasn't much of a shopper and that when I do shop it's usually for second-hand clothes which is called d'occasion in French which I love the sound of.  I really have the perfect clothes for every d'occasion.

Okay, so I didn't really just accept the first suggestions offered by my cafe mates.  The Louvre seemed a little too predictable.  Musee Rodin?  Been there.  The Petit Palais?  It sounded better and it was suggested by a man wearing a Barbour and round tortoise glasses, both of which he has probably owned forever.  I'll go.

And for the evening?  Olivier showed up with a little booklet that comes out once a week with updates on theatre, cinema, expos, enfants.  Why did it take four months for this gem to fall into my hands?  (And I still haven't stopped to look up enfants.  Kids for sale?)  Anyway, I asked him to find me a dance performance.  He went to the dance section and handed me the book.  I said, "No.  Just pick something and I'll go."  I can hardly tell the difference between the name of the show, the name of the theater and the name of the street, so it would be much easier to follow instructions.

Voila! By 11:30 a.m. my day was planned and I set off on foot to find the Petit Palais.  What I'm realizing is that you really see a lot more on two feet than on two wheels.  I'm becoming quite familiar with stoplight surroundings on my bike since it seems I'm sitting there for hours,  but the rest of Paris is still kind of whizzing by.  So, a seven-hour walk was just what I needed.  But....that's how they got me.

I could successfully walk past almost everything.  Then I saw a window full of wing tips, looked up, saw the name, Albaladejo, and said au revoir to the Petit Palais and bonjour to Frederic (it looks and sounds better with the accents on the "e's".)  I bought one of my favorite pairs of shoes from this shop in Madrid 8 years ago.  Then I saw the store in Paris 6 years ago, but I didn't buy any.  Came back to Paris in May of 2010 and couldn't find the store.  Came back in September 2010 and couldn't find the store.  And on a grey day in January of 2011 the store found me and I found two really cool pairs of shoes.

As for the rest of my day?  I walked.  It's fun to walk swinging a shopping bag from a store you've been searching for for 8 years.  As for the dance?  I decided to go find the theater and see if I could buy a ticket early for tonight's performance.  Yes.  I could buy a ticket early, but it would be for Tuesday's performance because there were none left for tonight.

So, how am I going to tell the gang I didn't take any of their suggestions?  I think they'll understand.  Just in case they won't, I'll spend the rest of the evening translating this piece from Dr. Seuss into French:

You have brains in your head.

You have feet in your shoes. (your  Albaladejos)

You can steer yourself any direction you choose.

You're on your own and you know what you know.

And you are the one who'll decide where you'll go.

Oh the places you'll go.

Scoot around the world

I haven't actually scooted that much.  But I'd have to say I'm one of the biggest fans of Vespas, mopeds, Lambrettas and little motorcycles that I know.  I don't think I can describe it without sounding really nuts, so I'm not going to try.  Just let it be known.....I love the things.

Did I mention my quick trip to Belgium in December?  Sometimes when I'm facing a weekend alone in Paris I just don't want to do it.  It seems long and lonely and cold.  So, I call a friend and jump on the next plane or train and go for a visit.  (I'd jump on a Vespa if I had one.)

In December I fled to Brussels.  It was my third visit.  But it was my first Vespa ride.  Mamma mia!  I don't know how to say that in Flemish or I would.  We went for a two-hour ride with two two-hour smiles.

I guess I have the same attitude about scooters as I do my convertible.  Wear warm clothes and  have fun. That's what Santa Claus does, right? And that's what we did.  Brussels by 1983 Vespa with an adorable Spanish girl, Christmas decorations and purple shoes was right up there with the moped in Cozumel, the scooter in Croatia and the moto in Procida.  I'm still waiting for the Lambretta in Italia!

A Sweet Life

I've made a mistake.  It's a good one.  Les Petites Ecolieres, my home away from home, is in fact, Les Petits Ecoliers.  What's the difference?  One is the name of the French porn that I mentioned before.  And the other simply means "The Schoolboys".  As pleased as I was to have become a regular at the porn cafe, I'm more pleased to have become a regular at the cafe for the schoolboys.  I'm happy to have been welcomed (although some of the drunks don't really like me) and surprisingly enough, I seem to be learning a little bit from these boys.

A few days ago, the discussion was about happiness.  What does it mean to be happy?  One conclusion was that you have to be either really stupid or really smart to be happy.  If you're really stupid, you don't know any better and you just float through life being happy. ( Is that a bad thing?)  And if you're really smart, maybe you've figured it all out.  I'm not sure there are many of those.  That left the rest of us in the middle.  Are we happy?

According to one important member of the group, he's pleased to have one little bit of happiness a day.  It's enough.  And it really doesn't have to be much.  If he collects all of those little moments along the way, he looks back and feels happy.  It's quite a nice idea, really.  Don't worry about when the next happy moment will come and  don't dwell on the unhappy things that have come and gone.  Just keep collecting the little bits of joy and in the end, you'll have happiness.

These little schoolboys are kind of smart, no?

It gets better.  I spent nearly two hours in the cafe that morning and talked about two hours worth of other nonsense (that I probably didn't understand because it was all in French).  Loads of customers came and went and I stayed planted on my stool for the next lesson.  Olivier worked around me clearing tables and washing dishes.  On one of his trips back to the bar he had a little tube of sugar tightly wound to indicate that only half had been used and it was still fresh and reusable.  It struck me as odd.  In the first place, who can use only half a tube of sugar?  I can only hope that this was the leftover from the consumption of a tube and a half.  Also, how much can half of a 3 inch tube of sugar be worth?  Then came the lesson.  He keeps a jar of sugar behind the bar.  He took the lid off, unwound the nicely wound little tube and poured it in.  It was far less sugar than could fill a one minute timer for BOGGLE, but he poured it in and said, "It's like happiness.  If I keep getting a little bit everyday,  in the end I'll have enough to make a cake."